


Oidhche Còmhla ri Bòcain

by orphan_account



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Claire in modern times, Claire is extremely confused, Claire-centric, F/M, Jamie is a spooky ghost, POV Jamie, Paranormal, and yet he also is not, other characters vaguely included, uh oh the Sydenham Institute is back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A drunk Claire is not a particularly intelligent Claire, so at the time she felt no issues with being taken home by a man she had stumbled across in her adventures in the graveyard, but she should have asked more questions. Why were his features so faint, why was he so quiet? It would have kept her sane to say no and find her own way back, to stop after the first experience, but curiousity was her curse.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 24
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a nightmare. Will get more unsettling as time goes on, but Claire and Jamie are trying their best.

It had been a drunken Friday, a rare thing on its own for the fact that she usually worked part time over the weekend, but it was a goodbye party for one of their old lecturers who was retiring in good health and the class crowded into the old pub. It could hardly contain them with the already existing crowd but endured because they were well known, and they were paying for plenty of alcohol.

Five drinks in and she knew it was time for her to leave. Always a lightweight, and she had no intentions of paying for a taxi or stumbling home alone too late. The old part of the city had less crime, but she always anticipated it from being raised in London, and her hugs goodbye were clumsy by the time she escaped to the city streets.

Old Aberdeen was more than old buildings. Cobbles roads and slabbed pavement made for a rumbling against car tyres but added to the very soul of the place. With the Autumn glow of aged trees spilling red leaves onto the pavement, and the dim glow of rustic street lights, it felt like an entirely separate world from that of the rest of the city. More so when she passed the old town hall, a square building that also served as a small museum and found herself staring idly at the modern road in front of her waiting for the lights to change.

Being next to the ocean, fog was a rare thing in Aberdeen and yet it spilled in. A steady, gentle blur of almost white that bled green as she stared at the crossing lights, doing her best to walk properly despite there being no one on the road to judge her.

Across the road, the patchwork of the older city took hold once again. A thick stone wall blocked her view of the newer Zoology building and instead led her down the path of richer buildings. Victorian, certainly, and meant for wealthier Victorians, and wealthier modern people as well. Some of the buildings were owned by the university, and some had plagues telling of professors that used to live inside, and yet as she trotted down the old road, she could only remember the stories told on Halloween tours.

She smiled idly at the memory of being told vampires lived in one of the houses, a fact that turned out to be true, but only for the fact that the daughters were allergic to the sun and could not come out in day.

Claire preferred ghost stories. She preferred tales where the answer was not obvious, with a distinct discomfort that could crawl up her spine and haunt her for days afterwards although, admittedly, she preferred for such stories to happen on holiday rather than when she had work the next day.

The Chanonry cut sharply into another road as weathered as the one behind her but stretched out in front of her was a thick black iron fence, and beyond that was the cathedral and the park that sat between her and home. It was a longer journey than most would bother with sober, but Claire was obstinate and had not taken a bike with her and knew buses would not come until the next morning. She could have asked to stay at someone else’s flat, or wasted £15 on a taxi, but drunk Claire did not care for danger and happily made her way through the gates, tripping on the step and hitting the pavement.

With a sharp yelp, gravel burrowed into her knees, and for once she was grateful for jeans as she pushed herself up, brushing her dress shirt off as she started back on her journey.

Claire seldom travelled through St Machar’s Cathedral during the day, and never at night. There were few lights in the park on the other end, and she had heard of robberies there before. A city was a city no matter how old or pretty it looked, but such dark thoughts did not pass through her mind in that moment. Instead, she was transfixed on the glow of the church lights on patches of graves and felt compelled to wander carefreely through the slabs of stones talking to ghosts that part of her knew were not there but wanted to talk to, nonetheless. She thought that if she were a ghost, she would like for someone to talk to her even if they could not see her in return.

It was with such a mad declaration that she abandoned the path in pursuit of older, more weathered graves with the hopes of a ghostly companion to blurt her slurred thoughts to.

She managed to make her way to the back of the cathedral where she knew many wealthy graves to be, as well as the graves of some buried pets, and it was after successfully making her way all around that exhaustion caused her to use one such grave as a back rest as she panted. The grass was wet underneath her from the fog that had grown steadily thicker although not thick enough to blind or endanger her. If she were sober, she would find using someone’s grave as a back rest to be horrifying, but she was not sober and after having slumped on it for several minutes, her mind finally reminded her of why she was there.

“Any spooky boys want to come out and play?” Her voice was far louder than it needed to be, ringing in her ears.

“Not so loud, lass, it’s late!” She did not yelp immediately, her brain taking a second longer to process anyone had spoken at all, her vision spinning when she turned her head violently to the left where the voice had come from.

“Hello! Hi! Someone there? I’m a friend! A good friend! The best friend!” She could not see into the mist but associated the voice with someone friendly as she struggled to stumble upwards only to immediately fall back down again and heard someone chuckle.

“Had a bit tae make tae drink there.”

“Not drunk! Just… eager! For ghosts!” She emphasised it with a slap on the ground, but it was clear that the voice did not believe her, and she could not see the man still. She did not see him until she looked up and saw him a short distance away leaning lazily against the tree. “Hello!”

“I heard ye the first time, lass.” His mouth was set in a half-smile as he looked down at her, and she squinted her eyes meanly at him as she tried to stand up again. She did not see him come closer but felt as he pulled her upwards with a very faint grip. She almost fell into him but managed to regain her balance. “Yer a light one, and what were ye daing out here at this hour.”

“Was… was looking for ghosts.”

“Oh aye?” She puffed out her cheeks, blowing a loose strand of hair free from her face.

“Was going home then thought I’d talk to ghosts.”

“Home?”

“Aye.” She responded sarcastically. “I live all the way over there.” She waved vaguely in the direction of her apartment, her arm flopping uselessly at her side.

“Right… and why were ye all the way out here?”

“What’re you, some sort of cop?” He watched her cluelessly. “One of my teachers retired. We all came out to celebrate him retiring and I decided to go home early.”

“Congratulations tae him.” She nodded, not really looking at him. “Well, ye shouldnae be walkin’ out in these parts alone, so I’ll take ye as far as I can.”

What remained of her logical mind resisted, saying that he could do terrible things to her then, or that once he reached the apartments he would know where to rob next. She could be a corpse long before she reached the apartment. The drunk part of her mind did not want to be alone and thought that if she was going to be murdered by someone, she much preferred the tall handsome man in front of her to any other ruffian.

“Alright, good sir!” She declared with both hands on her hips and eagerness in her position. “Show me the way to Amarillo!” He raised his brow at her but offered her his arm which she clumsily wrapped her own around.

In foggy eyes, she could see his colouration only faintly. His hair was either brown or ginger, but very curly, and he had a fine square jaw that was impossible to not gawk at. She thought he could cut glass with such a fine jaw and was half tempted to test her luck and kiss it if not for the fact that she was struggling to hold onto him at all. It were as though he were not there at all, but only when she applied pressure. She did not think much of it, knowing that she was not in a clear enough mind to notice.

The gates came into view and she focused on them as she held onto him, realising how strangely quiet he was beside her. She heard no footsteps, no shifting of cloth, and as she stepped through the gates themselves, she felt no arm. It was not until she was all the way through that she realised and, with extreme confusion, looked back to see why he had stopped.

It was difficult to describe what she felt in that moment. At first, it was simply confusion as he was standing there and nothing more. Standing there with what could only be described as bewilderment, perhaps horror, etched onto his face. He appeared to be looking at her, or where she had been, and she could see him gulp.

“Everything alright?” She asked, and she saw him flinch as he looked in her general direction. “You’re looking pale as all hell.” He appeared to rub his arm aggressively, and she took offense to that; as though she were a blight on him. “Hey, what’s your problem!?”

He did not answer, and she made to step forward and demand answers when she saw something that immediately sobered her up.

He had no legs.

He was simply floating with the fog, and it was with a sharp clarity that he was no longer an unfamiliar human, glowing in washed out colour brighter than his environment. She confirmed that he had ginger hair, then, and very blue eyes. Unnaturally so, piercing everything around her as he seemed to search for her, speaking what she knew to be Gaidhlig but could not understand. She only knew one word: Aibhse.

Ghost.

With that, he became completely still. Frozen in time. And then he was flickering, violent compulsions through his paralysed body with his neck twisting viciously in all directions, his features blurring into nothing but the empty voids of screaming eyes and a gaping mouth. She felt the wail more than heard it, the pressure threatening to crush her lungs as he continued his tormented loop of agony. Part of her wanted to help him, part of him wanted to run.

She had enough sense to run and ran all the way home collapsing against her flat door long before she could unlock it.

She could never forget that screaming face, it burnt into her mind.

And, like the ghost stories she so loved, it haunted her for days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second encounter.

She managed to avoid the churchyard for exactly three days before the terribly creeping curiousity of wanting to return to the churchyard just to confirm that it was all an alcoholic hallucination brought on by her weak constitution and too much stress led her to the black iron gates once again.

“We have really got to stop meeting like this.” Claire remarked to herself as she stood there half frightful half giddy.

In daylight, it looked grim but not particularly menacing, but she could not think of a single thing that was menacing when the sun was beating down so heavily upon it; especially with how rare and delightful the sun actually was in Scotland.

“What’re you expecting to find? The tall handsome Scot to morph out of his grave and scream oogoo boogoo at you?” She scoffed at her leaden legs before willing them into activity and marching forward.

There was nothing cheerful about churches in Aberdeen. They were made of the grim grey granite of the land which, whilst shining after a good amount of rain, pressed down upon her like a heavy weight. Beautiful, certainly, but oppressive. There was no beauty without power where a church stood, and in a country so well known for its bloody history, she knew without researching that there would have been blood spilt on the land at least once.

‘It makes sense that there would be ghosts. There are ghosts everywhere.’ From the entranceway, she could see the clock on the tallest tower that had stilled at some point at 3:30, and for once it was accurate.

It was a crowded graveyard; chalked up to the fact that it was an old church. Cathedral, she reminded herself, although it had not had a bishop in centuries which made it a former cathedral and she preferred church anyhow. Somehow, it felt slightly less to her, and she was perfectly content for the place to be as less as possible.

‘Now… I went right down the cobbled path and around the back…’ She was only confirming to herself that it was a drunken nightmare and nothing more, and yet she hesitated. It was the more trustworthy path, actually having slabs, but part of her resisted the road with active terror. It did not matter that it led to the church itself, that it was broad daylight, that she was being foolish. Her mind recoiled and snapped and pleaded, imaginary violence pulling at the backs of her eyes telling her to just turn around and leave. That no one would know or judge her for it.

She stormed down the path, infuriated by her active mind’s game. Claire would not be told where she could and could not stand by imaginary monsters and had no intentions of letting such ridiculous thoughts hinder her. She was a grown woman, she could take care of herself, and if there happened to be a ghost, she would be perfectly fine.

After reaching the end of the path, passing through the ruins of a former part of the church where there were even more graves, Claire found the spot where she had collapsed three nights earlier. She stood there for a moment, registering the exact spot in daylight.

It seemed so plain.

Trees from the park further ahead meant that part of it was shaded in blurry green, but not the part she had fallen against, and only the railings and the wall had been covered by it. Her spot, however, was shining bright in daylight with the grass slightly compressed where she had sat against the grave.

‘Sorry, mate.’ She scratched at the back of her head, strands of hair coming loose, as she walked over to the grave.

It was worn, extremely so, by age. The surface was puckered and there were only slight indentations where words had once been, with the only undamaged parts being near the bottom. The date of death. 21st May 1746.

‘Okay, that is old.’ She pulled away, drawing her lips back in disgust; she had not only been sitting on a grave, but she had been sitting on a very old one. At least, it was old in her eyes. There had been older, she had spotted a few from the 17th and even the 16th century as she marched along, but it was still older than most graves which were often Victorian. ‘You’re lucky you didn’t break it, Claire.’ She scolded herself, retreating to the path.

“Note to drunk Claire: gravestones are not suitable beds.”

“So yer name’s Claire.” She let out a screech, jumping violently away from the sudden voice and fumbling with her keys to defend herself. The voice laughed, and whisky eyes hunted it down.

Drunk Claire, unfortunately, had good eyes. The man was standing right there, in all his glory, with no signs of distress or agony torn upon his face. She stood, paralysed, as she saw him leaning against the church wall watching her with a lazy smile.

“Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”

“I-I wonder if I have.” She felt it was a stupid thing to say and put her keys back in her jacket pocket; trying to compose herself.

“Did ye get tae yer home safe last night?” Claire opened her mouth, then closed it again, and wondered how to respond.

“What do you remember of last night?” There was an almost chuckle out of him as he adjusted his weight against the wall again. He looked human enough, his colours clearer in daylight. Maybe she had imagined the later part of the night. She hoped she did.

“So drunk ye dinnae ken what ye were daing?”

“I remember as far as you taking me to the gates and then it’s kind of a blur until I got to my room and collapsed on the bed.” She watched him shift again.

“I walked ye home. Dinnae worry, I didnae go in, I stood outside tae make sure ye actually got in wi’out trouble, and then I headed back tae town.” She wanted to believe him, and yet there was resistance. Perhaps it was in the furrow of his brows, in the vanishing smile, but part of her thought that he was lying. “It’s a nice cottage.”

There it was. The lie.

“I don’t live in a cottage.” A moment ticked by, and she saw him flicker. She could only describe it as when there was a problem with an old video and a line ran up the screen shifting everything slightly out of order, and it came with a sharp static sound.

“It’s a nice cottage.” He said again. It was the exact same tone, and he did not move from the spot.

“I don’t live in a cottage.” She tried again. There was the cutting static again.

“It’s a nice cottage.”

Whatever thing allowed him to continue existing, she silently came to the conclusion that it did not let him know he was dead. However it intended, it reset him when she corrected him. She had a feeling that if she told him that he had not taken her home, and that he had actually never passed beyond the gates, he would not be allowed to recognise the words.

‘Perhaps it is not a matter of him not being allowed, but some sort of trauma stopping him.’ Some sort of trauma, she said, as though death itself were not a traumatic thing, better yet being dead and coming back as a ghost. A coping mechanism to pretend that he was alive, that he lived beyond the church, and that he was wandering amongst them as any living man.

Morbid curiousity pushed her further still.

“See the reason I hesitate it because I had such an obscure dream when I got back that you never went beyond the church gates, called me a ghost, and then vanished yourself.”

Another moment passed, and this time she could see genuine hesitation on his face.

“Well, I’m no’ sure about the vanishin’ part, I’m very hard tae miss.” He tried to dismiss it, but he did not deny that he did not go beyond the church gates and that he had called her a ghost.

Another quiet conclusion. Perhaps he thought that she was the ghost, which was why he had pretended that he had taken her home. That did not explain why he reset when she said she did not live in a cottage.

‘Maybe his mind is changing the narrative as we go along?’ Adapting to the changes she was offering him, but still circling around the truth.

One thing was certain. He did not know he was dead, and he was not letting himself know.

“Well if I am a ghost, which you did not deny mumbling, then I better have a decent grave.” She tried lightheartedly, disliking the way his face was twisting in the silence as she brought out a hand. “Sorry for last night, I’m Claire Beauchamp.”

“A bonny name fer a bonny lass.” He shook her hand, and it felt solid, but she felt no heat nor cold from it. “I’m Jamie. Jamie Fraser.”

“Glad to be meeting my elusive Scottish saviour in daylight.”

“Aye, and a decent day tae.”

It was awkward, with both having thoughts on the other. It was starting to become painful when Jamie spoke again.

“Ye said that ye were celebratin’ a teacher’s retirement. What was he teachin’ ye?”

“Oh, uh, I’m a doctor so I was getting the hang of that. I’m just a general practitioner, but I am qualified to do major surgery.”

“M-major surgery?” She could hear the nausea in his voice. “Ye must have nerves of steel tae be able to gut someone like that.”

“No different from any other. At least there’s no struggling.”

“Load ‘em up wi’ whisky, then?” She almost said anaesthetic, but would he even know what that was?

“I make it a good habit to have no conscious patients, could you imagine the horror of waking up whilst having your stomach stitched up.” He visibly shivered, a genuine shiver rather than the flicker of before, but nodded.

“Aye, thankfully I’ve had the sense tae be unconscious every time.” He scratched at his head, but she did not hear the scratching. “Ye were taught? I didnae ken that the university let women in now.”

“Well I’m a special case.” There was a twitch. Whatever story he had built in his head for her, she had only extended on it. “It never made sense to me how people would decide how qualified someone is for a job based on their genitals.”

“Och, got a tongue on ye. But aye, I’m inclined tae agree wi’ ye.”

“So, I’m sure you’ve already got a story for me being in the graveyard so often.” A slight smile to give away that truth. “Why’re you here?” She was pushing again. Trying to see the boundary limits. What would his mind allow him to say?

“I come here tae think.”

“Think?”

“Aye, it’s far away enough that I dinnae have tae hear most of the family rantin’, but close enough that if there’s any trouble I can get back home wi’ nae trouble.”

“Where’s it you live?” He was quiet for a moment, then he pushed away from the wall entirely and started to walk along the path. She noticed that, even now, his footsteps were silent, and she trailed after him until he came to a stop in the middle of the path, pointing at one of the older buildings.

“My uncles live in that one. I’ve been stayin’ wi’ them for a while.”

“Uncles?”

“Aye, Dougal and Colum.” She made a note to herself to remember the house, and to check the names later on. She wanted more information on this supposed Jamie Fraser. “Ach, best no’ be botherin’ them, though, they think I’m trouble enough as it is and if a mysterious lady appears at the door, they might be wonderin’ worse things still.”

“Mysterious now, am I?” A sly smile appeared on her face and he quickly cleared his throat. She could not tell if it was out of embarrassment. “Don’t worry, I have no intentions of creeping into your house and rearranging the furniture.”

“Or curdling milk.” A similarly cheeky look appeared on his face.

“That would just be evil. Milk is rare and beautiful, and tea is the only way I function in this society.” He laughed then. A warm laugh, like a bubbling brook, that was quickly silenced when he realised, he had done it at all. It was very odd.

“I can rest at ease, then.”

“Claire!” She jolted, turning her head at the call of another voice. She could see vibrant red hair, and she immediately recognised it at Geillis catching up to her.

“Hey, Geillis!” She shouted back as the woman came closer, watching Jamie out of the corner of her eye.

She was confused. He could see Geillis, or was at least watching her movements, and was observing with what could only be described as dread. Slowly, blue eyes turned to her, and she could see that the vibrant colours were fading again.

“Tell me what you see.” She asked him.

“Sìobhrag.”

“What?” Before he could grab her, Geillis was upon her and slapping her hands on Claire’s shoulders where Jamie’s had reached out.

“I was wonderin’ where ye had gotten aff tae. Did ye forget that there’s a meetin’ at Elphinstone at four?”

“O-oh, yeah sorry I completely forgot.” She tried to shrug off her experience now that Jamie’s presence had completely vanished, but Geillis heard her stumble and that was a rare thing in Claire.

“What’s on yer mind this time?”

“What does… shiv-rack mean?”

“…Shivrack? Oh honey, yer Gàidhlig pronunciation is a tragedy and a half. I’m guessin’ ye meant sìobhrag?”

“Yes, that’s what I meant.”

“Means ‘fairy’, love. Now come on, we can talk about yer sudden interest in fairies later. They’ll be startin’ in ten minutes.”

She was pulled viciously along, and soon they were speed-walking, not running, to Elphinstone Hall to avoid being late for the meeting. She did not take notes, fixated on the ghosts grumbling comments of curdled milk and fairies. She had the names written down in the margins of her notebook and reminded herself to get access to the history records in the archaeological department. She had a few friends there, and the city maps were never lacking in information regarding tenants. They would give her the clues she needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not deny that I have taken advantage of my connections in archaeology before to get information on houses in the city in bouts of madness, although I will not deny it's easier to use the physical libraries than it is to just use the digital format.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire researches.

By the end of the night, Claire knew more about Aberdeen than she had ever cared to know prior, fixated entirely on trying to locate any information on the house that Jamie had pointed out and only finding herself increasingly frustrated with the lack of records. The only map that she did find with actual names on it had no names associated with the house itself, but the four houses near it. Further still, there was a massive gap between that map and the map that came prior; a gap of ninety-five years to be exact.

“Further still, all I bloody know about the building itself is that it’s 17th century and updated in the 19th century." She grumbled, glaring accusingly at her laptop for its lack of information. The house itself had been a Divinity college after the reformation and then after that was owned by several people.

Not even looking at the local area on maps did much to help her, with all of the ones she saw showing a massive estate towards Seaton House. On later maps there was a well mapped in the area, but in the oldest map she could find it was part of the many bands of the River Don, but that map was dating from 1686 and simply looking at it gave her a headache.

‘Not even Canmore can save you now, Claire.’ She huffed. At least she knew that the building had been reconstructed in 1718, but that was all she knew. She had a massive three-hundred-year gap between her and her curiousity.

A moment passed, her chin resting in her hands as she considered what to do next. Why was she so fixated on this information, and why could she not let it go? She was simply wasting time looking for a ghost.

‘Let’s be real here, Claire, this is the most exciting thing you’ve done since you were fifteen.’ It stung to even think it, rubbing her temples and stretching upwards, her back cracking in place as she leaned against her chair. Her coffee had long since been abandoned and the clock on her laptop told her it was 00:29. She should be sleeping, but she did not have work the next day. ‘Fuck it, there’s bound to be records somewhere.’

Determined to go to sleep with her time period somewhat reduced, she powered through for another hour and found a book on the chanonry, her building being part of that dreaded street, describing it from 1724 to 1725. It also gave the time period before and the list of many owners and their livelihoods as well as their wealth. All she concluded from the book was that the supposed uncles did not own it from 1725 and prior.

‘That doesn’t reduce it by much…’ It was only another seven years off her list.

Another map. 1773 this time, but the issue remained the same. There were no names, but the house was still there. The entire street was labelled with “chaplains”, so it was clear that by that point the house was not owned by a family separate from the church.

Ancestry was a god damn blessing, in her opinion. She almost considered paying, but instead played around with the key words and obstinately typed the street name and number and went through thousands of files. She was impressed by the sheer number of them, and the hours ticked by.

Hours of pure determination later she had reduced her scale enormously.

She managed to cut out all the way from 2003 to the 1830s, with the 1810s and 1820s being recorded but only in the form of former slave registries. It still meant that there was a one-hundred-year possibility of where her ghost lurked.

‘Okay, think with your brain.’ Did Jamie Fraser himself give her any clues to his appearance? He dressed old, that was certain, but there was little else to think of. He wore a kilt, although not the pretty plaided kilt of modern day.

She decided to stoop low and googled the kilt fashion of Scotland. She knew, vaguely, that the modern kilt was a Victorian trend because Geillis kept telling her that at every opportunity, and that the original kilt was just a ‘big fucking blanket’.

Claire ended up scanning through the Wikipedia page, skipping to the 18th and 19th century and that was when she came across a potential answer.

‘The Dress Act of 1746 banned the wearing of the traditional kilt and was repealed in 1782.’ That cut another thirty-five years from her gap as Jamie was certainly wearing the kilt in the traditional fashion. That was a forty-eight year window in the later part of the century that he could be from, or a twenty-one year window between the last documented owner of the building that she could find and when the ban was set up.

She brewed a moment longer. It was now almost five in the morning, and she had two potential windows to work with, but she was not satisfied. Not yet.

‘He spoke Gàidhlig, and I know for a fact that after the Jacobian Risings the language had further punishments.’ She also knew that people were not taught Gàidhlig after the ban until 1800, and only then to encourage the speaking of English. Adding that with the map of 1773 which showed that only chaplains owned the houses, and she very much doubted that he was from the latter half of the gap. ‘If I consider this, then that still leaves me with twenty-one years where Jamie Fraser could be from.’

With a sigh, she finally pulled away from the laptop and turned it off. Her notes were closed and with her phone telling her it was almost five-thirty, she decided that the best thing to do was to catch up on her many lost hours of sleep. She could gather more information from Jamie Fraser come the evening. She knew she had no proof, having not tested it, but she was under the belief that he would be more active in the evening.

It was with such a declaration that she set her alarm for two in the afternoon, changed into her pyjamas, and promptly curled into a ball on her bed and slept the day away.

She did not dream, her mind stuffed to the brim with questions that made dreaming almost impossible beyond the circling of such questions, and she woke at twelve unable to go to sleep again.

‘God shits in my breakfast again.’ She thought bitterly, trying to twist and turn until she found the perfect spot to get her back to sleep. It did not work, and instead she abandoned the bed and made herself oatmeal.

Immediately she was back on the laptop. Her poor attempt at sleeping did give her some time to clear her thoughts, and she remembered the Tolbooth museum had records of prisoners worth looking at. They had captured at least fifty Jacobite prisoners; perhaps she would find something there.

‘It’s not much but I can at least write it off the list.’

Oatmeal, coffee, and a shower later she was feeling less tired and altogether more bored. Playing Candy Crush on her phone for twenty minutes, then failing in another nap, she decided that there would be no problem at all in getting dressed and going to the church early. At least then she would be able to confirm whether Jamie Fraser appeared in broad daylight, or only in evening and night.

The walk towards the church felt different knowing its history. That where she walked was where river once was. A wild torrent of a river surrounding the city that made safe passage towards the sea almost impossible. That the grass was once sand dunes, that the city she saw as relatively flat in this area was nothing but flattened hills, and not too far away from the university there used to be a loch; a loch that Jamie Fraser would have known.

‘It’s strange to even think about.’ Much of her path was on the lands of a former estate and before that it belonged to the bishop. It was no wonder that Jamie looked so unsettled when she said she lived there; he would have seen a great open field with no houses in it. And if it were not open field, then it would be hills. That was what the significantly less detailed 1764 map suggested, anyhow, not that she believed it would indicate a single cottage.

She vaguely recalled another illustration in her pursuit of answers from 1693 that clearly showed rising hills just beyond St Machar. There was a blur of what would have been buildings even further right well beyond the direction of her finger. Scots believing fairies to live in the hills was not entirely obscure. Every comment made sense in some manner.

It was such thoughts that she brooded on when she opened the iron gates into the church once again, glancing briefly at her watch to confirm that it had just hit two in the afternoon.

‘Maybe I’ll eat in town for once.’ Aberdeen was an expensive place, but she could afford to spoil herself from time to time and started about her search.

She still had not figured out what triggered Jamie to appear. It had only happened twice, so naturally there were no rules so far, and it would take several more visits before she figured it out. She did have a slight inclination that he could be better summoned near the grave where she had passed out, and silently thought to herself that perhaps it was his grave she had fallen against; although she had no proof and would have to ask for permission from the grave records before she could confirm anything; if it had not been ruined before then.

Small stones crunched as she walked along the path, silently watching for the slightest flicker of movement in the silence of the graveyard; quieter than usual considering there was a busy road not that far away.

She came to a standstill when she spotted it there. Crooked and simple; the surface of the grave had been rendered smooth by flakes falling off. She had thought it had just been puckered with age, wind or rain, but the material the grave was made from was simply cheap and not built to last. Not a pauper’s grave, certainly, but the person that died was not of great wealth either.

‘Sorry, Jamie.’ Claire thought. Looking at the death date again made her confident that the grave was his. That he had died on the 21st of May 1746. There was another date not too far away from that which gave a clue on his death as well, although she would have to dig further for that.

It was not as though Jamie did not believe her to be supernatural, anyhow. He would not be awfully surprised if she asked what year it was.

She knelt, pulling some of the long grass away from the bottom of the grave. She could not do much for it now; it was in such a sorry state and no one had cared for it in such a long time. No family to love it anymore. He had been dead for a long time, and that weight pressed down against her.

‘How long has he been haunting this church?’ She thought to herself miserably, staring at that death date. Almost three hundred years, although whether he was conscious of it was another matter. Perhaps he had been once, but as the years dragged on his memory faded. Faded or broke, it was difficult to tell.

“It’s too early in the day to have these thoughts.”

“Dinnae pity the dead, they’re already restin’.” She jolted but knew the voice. Claire knew Jamie was standing behind her.

“And what of ghosts?” She asked, standing upwards and turning to him; barely catching the flicker in his body.

“In a graveyard like this, I doubt they’ll be lackin’ fer company.” She shrugged.

“You can only spend so many years in the same space with the same people before you start to lose your mind.”

“Ach, I suppose that’s true.” He was leaning against a tree, although the tree he leaned against was bigger than the one that was there presently as he was mostly leaning on air. “What’re ye daing here again, lass? Managed tae escape yer companion.”

“Yes, she had her own work to get to, and she only comes to pick me up when I wander off on my own.”

“Nae trusted on yer own?”

“I make a habit of getting into trouble either by being too friendly or too short-tempered depending on the day and weather.” He laughed at that.

“Aye, nae the best combination, I should know.” He was quiet for a moment, and the silence was uncomfortable. As though he were waiting for something to happen. Claire watched as he hesitated. His arms shifted awkwardly before he unlocked them and went into his jacket pocket. “Take this.”

She was confused as he handed her a small iron cross. Silently, she recalled that he believed her to either be a fairy or stuck with them. She held the weight in her hands, but it did not feel of anything. It had the impression of being in existence, but she felt no warmth nor cold from it, only its weight. If she could not see it, she would not believe it to be there at all.

“Ye said yer name was Claire Beauchamp, aye?”

“Aye.” She responded automatically, staring at the cross.

“I’ve, ah, been searchin’ ‘round and naebody has been missin’ by that name recently.”

“Well, a lot of women disappear into the wilds with nobody looking for them.” He did not have much to say to that. “Jamie, what year is it for you?”

He clammed up. His entire body ceased, locked in some sort of defence. Would he glitch and start the conversation over?

“1743.” She shook her head.

“I’m sorry Jamie, but that’s not possible it’s 2020 right now.” Why was she doing this again? She knew that he would not react to it, that he would start over again and pretend the whole thing never happened. That this was what had happened to him after so many years in this place.

Just as she expected, the topic changed although it did not happen with a glitch but a movement of his own. She furrowed her brows and wondered whether he had heard her and was moving on of his own free will.

“Ye were starin’ at this patch earlier. Why?” Did he see his grave there? She wondered, staring at him but finding that she could not see his face clearly at all. It had somehow become too blurry to read. She could not tell if it was accidental or on purpose. If he had any control over himself.

“I was thinking of old graves, and what a shame it is to let them be neglected simply because they are not within living memory.” If he had a response, she could not see it. “Being a ghost must be lonely.”

“Aye.” She did not know whether he was confirming it, or only agreeing. There was so much she did not know. “When we both pass, I’ll be yer ghost if yer mine.”

She did not have the heart to tell him that he was already dead but laughed awkwardly.

“Ghost courtship; the longest battle out there for you can’t be married until death do you part.” A loud ‘ha’ escaped him.

“They’ll have tae update the terms and conditions tae keep up wi’ the ghost population.”

She did not see him vanish that time. Claire had chosen to linger longer to see if she could get any further clues on him and secretly found herself simply enjoying the company of the spectre. At one point she had turned the corner faster than him and he was simply gone, and though she waited he did not return.

She was intending to leave to get dinner in town when she opened her hand, remembering the cross, and saw that it was no longer there as she expected.

She did not expect the distinct purple bruise in the palm of her hand in the shape of a cross. When she pressed it, it was tender and slightly risen. She did not have the heart to be frightened of it. Not until she was already in town and she had the creeping dread that, aware or not, she had just made a worrisome deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I did all of that research not only once but twice, the first being for a project a few years ago to get an understanding of the old Aberdeen area, and it is truly a nightmare reading some of the maps which you can find on pastmap. Ancestry is the bane of my existence solely because of its paywalls.


End file.
